


Peer Pressure

by The_Pan_With_A_Plan



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Everyone Is Gay, M/M, Race is an IDIOT, Strangers to Lovers, and you can rip that headcanon from my cold dead hands, but they're all anxious potatoes, deep down inside, spot is a softie, the oc is only because none of the Brooklyn boys have friggin NAMES., they're all TOTAL MYSTERIES, we all know that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-09-13 20:32:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16899423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Pan_With_A_Plan/pseuds/The_Pan_With_A_Plan
Summary: The newsboys of Manhattan have started  a culture of homophobia in their fear of being found out, and it takes Race being a gigantic idiot to change that.





	1. In Which Race Done Goofs

Being gay in 1899 was quite strange. It was illegal, and yet thriving. A place could have a culture of homophobia, yet everyone be secretly gay. And that was exactly what happened in the Duane street newsboy lodge. You see, every newsboy there had gone through the same basic thought process, something along the lines of this:

  * I am gay.
  * It is illegal to be gay.
  * It is not socially acceptable to be gay.
  * I do not want it discovered that I am gay.
  * If I let it be known that I am gay, people will think I am gay.
  * If I let it be known that I support gay people, people will think I’m gay.
  * If I let it be known that I don’t mind gay people, people will think I’m gay.
  * if I let it be known that I don’t dislike gay people, people will think I’m gay.
  * I need to act homophobic to not be found out.



And when you act that way, people will think you are homophobic. If all boys act that way, then they will each reach one conclusion:

  * I am the only gay and everyone else is homophobic.



This could never end well.

* * *

 

Racetrack Higgins had his nickname for a reason. What, you thought his parents gave it to him? That reason would be his love of horse racing and gambling on them. And if he sold papers at the Sheepshead races, he could combine business and pleasure. There was only one small problem: Race was a Manhattan newsie, and Sheepshead was Brooklyn’s turf. No newsie with a pinch of common sense so much as set foot on the bridge, much less cross it, and even less so if they had papers with them. Of course, as anyone who knew him would say, Racetrack Higgins did not have a pinch of common sense. The spring air was crisp and the sun was shining. Race could hear the thunder of hoofbeats and raucous cheers from the crowd as he shouted out the headline. His stomach grumbled, and he wondered if he’d maybe earned enough to have some meat tonight. He smiled and pushed up the brim of his hat, not a care in the world. As he was doing so, he saw in the corner of his eye two muscular figures in red pushing towards him. Race started to run, but the pair soon caught up to him. The last thought that went through his mind was _“shit”_ , before they reached him and slugged him in the face, and everything went black. 


	2. In Which Race Meets Spot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> time to set the stage for our main ship! super excited to get into the comedic slow burn.

Race awoke in a strange building, and everything that had happened earlier came rushing back to him. He sprang up… and then stumbled backwards, head spinning. The room was empty except for a young boy, whose eyes widened when he saw Race spring to life, and he let out a holler.

“BOOSSSS!” he cried, and Race winced at the sound. He plopped down onto a crate, the only piece of furniture in the room besides the chair the boy currently occupied, and gulped as he heard footsteps approaching. The door opened, and a squarely-built boy of no more than 5’2” walked in. _“Probably another goon or something,”_ Race thought to himself, _“I can’t be in **too** much trouble.”_ 

“You can go now, Lefty,” the muscular boy said to the small child, who strode out calling, “He’s all yours, Spot!” _“Spot?!?”_ Race thought incredulously, as it dawned on him that the diminutive boy in front of him was the king of Brooklyn himself.

* * *

Spot Conlon had made a reputation for himself as the most respected and feared newsie in New York, a reputation that needed constant maintenance to uphold. And if that meant hiding his attraction to boys under a guise of homophobia, well, that was just the price of doing business. You don’t get everyone to fear you by letting them eat away at the boundaries of your territory. And you don’t keep your boundaries respected without getting everyone to fear you. Obviously, the only logical answer in this situation is violence. So when Spot was called in to deal with a Manhattan newsie who’d been caught selling at Sheepshead, he figured it would be open and shut. Come in, scare the crap outta the poor kid, beat him up a bit, never hear from him again. Ya know, the norm. Well, as he was about to find out, nothing is normal when it comes to Racetrack Higgins.

Spot entered the room and relieved Lefty of his duty. He always liked to make sure the “leeches”, as he called them, were awake to fear and witness and remember him beating them up. Truthfully, it also meant he’d have to do less roughing, and as much as he will deny it, Spot doesn’t love having to hurt people. It was more of a necessity. Unfortunately, that meant that he had to see them cower in terror. So he braced himself, and…

“‘Sup?” Spot’s brow furrowed in confusion as he took in the speaker, a slight, blonde boy of about fourteen, who was sitting leisurely on the crate. The boy spoke again, “I’m Racetrack Anthony Higgins, but you can call me Race,” he said with a smirk as he extended his hand. Spot shook it, bewildered, and replied, “I’m Spot Conlon, the king of-” Race cut him off, waving his hand dismissively, “Yeah, yeah. I know who you are, I’m not an idiot. Say, do you have a spare cigar I could use? Your goons took mine when they abducted me.” Spot couldn’t believe this kid’s nerve. First they caught him selling in Brooklyn, then he interrupts Spot himself, and to top it off, he asks for a cigar? Does he have any idea how expensive those are?

“Cut the small talk, Higgins,” Spot replied sharply. “Alrighty then, I’ll get right to business,” Race responded matter-of-factly. “Maybe he just misspoke, or misunderstood me,” Spot thought to himself, perplexed. But before he could respond, Race continued, “I have a proposition for you.”


	3. In which Race ignores the odds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry that the chapters are shorter, that's just the style I'm using. also sorry for not updating in over a month, hit a real writer's block. your positive comments are what encourages me to write, so thanks for the morale boosters.

Race may have been wildly reckless and foolhardy, and he may have had no better than a fourth grade reading level, but he knew one thing, and that was math. And thanks to his penchant for gambling, he was especially good at probability. So when he got dragged to the Brooklyn lodge house to be soaked by Spot Conlon himself, he did the only thing he was good at to try and save his ass. He made a bet. 

“I have a proposition for you,” he announced to a deeply baffled Spot. He said it with a sly smile on his face, but he was secretly terrified, and he had his hands on his knees to keep his limbs from quivering. Race knew that what he was about to do was incredibly risky, and if he failed, he’d be so, so screwed. But if he won, he’d be all set. So he plowed ahead, “I’d like to make a bet with you.”

Spot was intrigued. Maybe not intrigued enough to accept, but certainly enough to hear more. “Go on,” he prompted the twerp in front of him, who took a deep breath before moving forward. “If I win, you let me free without beating me up, and I get to keep selling at Sheepshead, free of punishment,” he stated. Spot scoffed. There was no way losing Sheepshead would be worth the risk. But Race continued with his terms. “And if I lose, you get to beat the shit out of me, kick me all the way back to Manhattan, and take half of my profits for a month.” Spot sat up straighter in the chair at that last part, and Race grinned smugly. Spot mulled it over, thinking of all he could do with the money. He would be able to loan it out to kids who didn’t turn a profit that day so they could eat. He could get Turtle a pair of shoes that actually fit! Finally, Spot responded, “and what would we be betting on?” 

“I bet I can sell fifty newspapers in Brooklyn in one day without getting caught.”

* * *

 

When Spot accepted his bet, Race didn’t quite know what to make of it. Obviously, he was excited. But the fact that Spot had agreed to it meant that it would no doubt be hard, and he had a lot riding on this. They worked out specifics and terms, and then Race was on his way. The sun was already setting as he started across the bridge, and it was dark by the time he slipped into the newsboy lodge. 

“Hey, where ya been?” asked Jack Kelly, the leader of the Manhattan newsies. Race was about to tell Jack about meeting Spot, but in a split second he changed his mind.

“The races were a little  _ too  _ exciting. I lost track of time,” he said cooly. 

“An what’s with the bruise on your cheek?”

“Drunkard. Punched me when I bumped into him,” Race answered without missing a beat. He didn’t quite know why he lied to Jack. Maybe it was the stupidity of his wager. Or maybe it was because he knew Jack would overreact if he heard about Race’s close call. But it didn’t matter, because Race needed to be on the top of his game tomorrow, and that meant getting some sleep. 


End file.
